I had a curry tonight with my friend Liz, who lives in my hood (that's neighbourhood, grandad, not the hood of my jacket cos a) my jacket is too hip and trendy to have a hood and b) cos even though I have a big head, any hood I had would still not provide sufficient living quarters for any kind of life form that I would be happy to call my friend).
I walked her home and as I was about to bid her adieu and thank her once more for introducing me to a great Indian restaurant, we noticed a young man skulking down by the doorway to the basement flat in her building.
He seemed a bit perturbed, though not especially threatening. The reason he was in such a flap was partly because he was locked out, but mainly because he was ridiculously posh. They have to flap. Years 1-3 of public school are totally concerned with flapping.
He explained that he was the brother of the bloke who owned the flat who was away (let's call him Hugo, every name he told us tonight was ridiculously posh and I can't remember any of the actual ones he used so I'm going to make them up. Don't think I'm using parody posh names in order to belittle him though. All the names were just ridiculously, stereotypically and unbelievably posh. So posh that if a normal person had been accidentally given them they would never have lived to adulthood. Their brains would most likely have been battered out of their heads on day one of primary school).
The young man himself was called Will, the least ridiculous name of all, but he had been expecting to meet Piers at the flat, because he had the keys and was meant to be there to let him in. Will was starting work in an investment bank or something the very next morning. It seemed unbelievable rudeness for the keyholder to have forgotten the appointment to let this young chap in. Especially when it wasn't even Piers's flat. It belonged to Hugo, Will's brother. (I've just remembered I used to have a puppet called Hugo. It was a mass produced thing and you could stick on different moustaches and scars and noses and stuff. I used to love it. Yet I had totally forgotten about it til this moment).
What a wonderful welcome to the big city. He'd come here from Dorset to start a new job and here he was at around midnight, sitting in a stairwell and trying to break into his own brother's flat.
"You wouldn't happen to have a key to his flat, would you?" he hopefully asked Liz.
"No," was the unsurprising answer.
Of course, this could have been an elaborate scam. He may have been a burglar trying to gain access to the possessions in this unoccupied property. According to the world of film and TV conmen always pretend to be posh in order to make you trust them. Liz was wise to this, "What's Hugo's wife called?" she asked.
Will answered immediately "Camilla."
"What about their kids?"
"Twekky and Lenkmeam" - all right not in fact, but something so similarly ridiculously impossible to guess and equally likely to get you knifed in a comprehensive school toilets.
A few more pointed questions pretty much proved that Will was who he said he was or had thoroughly researched his role. Or possibly that he was just an amazingly competent guesser.
His woes were futher increased by the fact that his mobile phone (a very posh new one, of course) was out of batteries. He asked if he could charge it in Liz's flat (he was very polite and apologetic). Liz kindly said he could use her land-line.
After a failed attempt to get in the back way (after climbing down a drain-pipe at the back of the house) Will came into Liz's flat to use the phone.
Luckily for him he had met one of the few people in London who wouldn't just laugh at his predicament and walk away. Liz was extremely kind and welcoming. She wasn't so welcoming that she'd let him stay in her flat (which let's face it, would have been stupid), but then I can't talk as I actually have a spare bedroom and I didn't want the confident young toff in my home.
She did say he could sleep in the corridor outside, or in a little utility room out the back, neither of which would have afforded him much rest before such an important day.
He went downstairs to bring his bags in off the street. We laughed at his situation, and I told Liz that I thought she was being very decent, but she said that we'd all had the horrible experience of the first day in this frightening big city and she was helping him because we'd all been there.
I was a bit prejudiced against him because of his poshness and although he was very polite and appreciative it was almost as if he didn't recognise how bad his situation was and just how kind Liz was being. But he was sweet and young and hopeful. I don't think in reality his poshness would have made any difference. He was lucky he hadn't stumbled across the lodgings of the London based Fred and Rose West (yeah, Rich, like you need to go outside of London to think of people who have murdered strangers for sexual kicks).
He was having difficulty getting through to anyone and the friends he contacted seemed unconcerned and unhelpful. He woke one bloke up, who told him to ring back if he couldn't find anywhere else to stay.
Finally he contacted some friends in Putney who would take him in and give him a beer into the bargain. Liz offered to look after any of his stuff that he didn't need and said she would have given him a lift, but we'd had a few glasses of wine, so she'd better not.
It was good to see that Londoners can be kind and helpful and not afraid to help. Unless of course they were actually Will's mates. In which case they mainly couldn't be arsed to answer the phone.
He bumbled around working out what he needed, so green around the gills, that one had to laugh.
I'm not sure I would have been as helpful as Liz. In fact I am sure that I wouldn't have been. I am too suspicious I suppose. And also selfish.
But it struck me that if Jesus really wanted to test people by disguising himself as someone in need, then he shouldn't waste his time dressing up as bent old women, dirt faced starving children or lepers. Most of us would help them (though not me and the cigarette craving lady of a few weeks ago. I don't think I can be redeemed. Not unless carrying bags and prams up tube staircases counts for a lot in heaven).
However, get a cocky, self-confident tough in a quandary and I think most of us might be happy to let our envy get the better of us and we'd leave him to sleep in the streets with his lap-top and all his possessions.
Only the truly charitable person would have the strength of character to help him.
Liz is on her way to Heaven. I am just planning never to die. Ha ha, I shall out smart Jesus that way.
